“What can I do?”
“I’m not sure if you can do anything. Has Adamson kept you up to date?”
“Oh yes. Mr. Adamson is thorough if nothing else. He wasn’t happy with how your meeting at the jail went this evening. He told me you were confrontational bordering on disrespectful. He said you offended Colonel Tan.”
“He told me the same thing.”
“You don’t like him.”
“Let’s just say that he and I approach the table from different sides.”
“What does that mean?”
Simon let it hang there. She knew him well enough, how he did things. “Tell me about PetroSaud.”
Delphine shrugged. What do wives know about their husbands’ jobs? “So long ago. Rafa turned Malloy down at first, despite the fact that he desperately needed a job. Said he didn’t like Geneva. Malloy wouldn’t take no for an answer. He hounded Rafa, offered him an apartment in Cologny, a car—a Porsche—expense account. Rafa ate at Le Relais de l’Entrecôte three times a week.”
“Did he mention any problems? Anything that bothered him while he was there?”
“We didn’t talk about work. I was traveling myself, research, writing. Mostly the Middle East, Africa. I had my own thing. Besides, you know how I feel about what you do.”
“What I do?”
“You and Rafa. Banks. Financiers. Insurance companies. Private equity. The Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse.”
“I don’t think we’re as bad as all that.”
Delphine canted her head. “Wasn’t my father one of your clients?”
Simon nodded. They both knew he was.
“Case closed.”
“Your opinion of him runs contrary to the queen’s.”
“Sir Dickie? ‘Sultan of Stratford.’” He heard a laugh, even if it wasn’t out loud. “Yours doesn’t?”
“Bankers don’t comment on their clients.”
“Such a convenient way to avoid examining your conscience.”
Simon smiled, not about to be drawn into an argument, happy, though, that some things never changed, or at least some people. A last glance behind them. No one hiding in the shadows.
Twenty yards ahead, a walkway followed the banks of the Chao Phraya—the River of Kings—the broad waterway that twisted and turned through the city, emptying into the Gulf of Thailand fifteen miles south. Hotels, apartment buildings, offices, new and old, lined either bank. At eleven o’clock, river traffic was lively, vessels moving in both directions, mostly barges ferrying supplies up-country. Even at night, he could see that the water was filthy.
They walked shoulder to shoulder.
“Still trying to save the world,” said Simon.
“I gave up a long time ago. I’d settle for educating one person at a time. Ever read any of my articles?”
Last he’d heard, Delphine was still at Chatham House, traveling the world, raising money from foundations here and there to pay for her articles about the humanitarian aid crisis.
“No. I’m sorry.”
“Figures. No fast cars or pretty girls in them. Probably still reading your Dumas novels.Count of Monte Cristo. The Three Musketeers.Simon, my hopeless romantic.” She looked away. “I’m trying to be mad at you.”
“I know you are.”
